I comfort myself with the thought of Spiderman falling off buildings and shooting webs out to catch himself mid-air. SURELY if a man bitten by a spider has that skill, a real spider also does. A long way down = lots of time to shoot out webs.
Showing posts with label whoops. Show all posts
Showing posts with label whoops. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
murder by accident is still murder
This happened to me recently. I'm trying to be more creative, INCLUDING signing up for a DRAWING CLASS, so I thought I'd draw it out for you on MS Paint. Because I'm artsy like that.
Friday, December 30, 2011
stop touching your face, dave
I may have unwittingly began a chain of events that will result in something similar to the movie Contagion. (I didn't see it, because come on, as if there's one more thing I should be worried about; however, I'm familiar with the premise.)
But first, I must go farther back. Over recent months, I find myself slightly addicted to shopping at Value Village. My reasoning is twofold: I like having new clothes, and I don't like paying full price for stuff. Anyway, I was made aware of the fact that I might be a bit out of control when, on my last trip to Value Village, I dropped off some clothing from a recent trip to a different Value Village because once I brought it home and washed it I realized I didn't like it after all. Also I go to more than one. I don't think that's normal.
So I was in Value Village this afternoon, trying on a beautiful jacket from Smart Set that only cost $15! One of my requirements for a coat is that it have side pockets I can put my hands in, not just decorative front pockets. You'd be surprised at how many coats lack functional side pockets. I was disappointed by the fact that this was one of those lacking the pockets, but the coat was so pretty that I stuck my hands in the decorative front pockets to see if I could make it work.
I immediately regretted that decision, as my hand instantly emerged again, horrifyingly clasping a crumpled kleenex. As soon as I registered what my hand was doing, I dropped the kleenex on the ground, berating said hand for clasping it in the first place. After a few moments of disgusted shudders, I composed myself with the following instructions: Simply do not touch face with hand that has touched kleenex. No need to panic.
But then you guys, as I emerged from the change room, holding the jacket because I loved it despite the lack of side pockets/surprise used kleenex, my nose itched. As a reflex, despite the conversation I'd had with myself literally moments earlier, I SCRATCHED MY NOSE. WITH THE KLEENEX HAND.
Well, crap, I thought to myself. Now I'm going to die.
Because who KNOWS what was on the kleenex? It was crumpled, thereby assuring me that it wasn't a fresh kleenex. What could it have been used for?
Best Case Scenario:
- tears
- crumpled in anger but never used
- blotting up a water spill
- someone's phone number (I never checked!)
- a genius Math formula that was worth a million dollars and would solve the energy crisis (I NEVER CHECKED!)
Worst Case Scenario:
- contained the coughs of someone with a communicable disease
- harbinger of a new plague
So presently I feel fine, but pay attention to the news in case I die suddenly. Then you, reader, must take it upon yourself to report to the authorities that the origin of a new plague is in the third change room at the Value Village in Newton. Obviously I can't warn them now, because I would sound crazy.
But first, I must go farther back. Over recent months, I find myself slightly addicted to shopping at Value Village. My reasoning is twofold: I like having new clothes, and I don't like paying full price for stuff. Anyway, I was made aware of the fact that I might be a bit out of control when, on my last trip to Value Village, I dropped off some clothing from a recent trip to a different Value Village because once I brought it home and washed it I realized I didn't like it after all. Also I go to more than one. I don't think that's normal.
So I was in Value Village this afternoon, trying on a beautiful jacket from Smart Set that only cost $15! One of my requirements for a coat is that it have side pockets I can put my hands in, not just decorative front pockets. You'd be surprised at how many coats lack functional side pockets. I was disappointed by the fact that this was one of those lacking the pockets, but the coat was so pretty that I stuck my hands in the decorative front pockets to see if I could make it work.
I immediately regretted that decision, as my hand instantly emerged again, horrifyingly clasping a crumpled kleenex. As soon as I registered what my hand was doing, I dropped the kleenex on the ground, berating said hand for clasping it in the first place. After a few moments of disgusted shudders, I composed myself with the following instructions: Simply do not touch face with hand that has touched kleenex. No need to panic.
But then you guys, as I emerged from the change room, holding the jacket because I loved it despite the lack of side pockets/surprise used kleenex, my nose itched. As a reflex, despite the conversation I'd had with myself literally moments earlier, I SCRATCHED MY NOSE. WITH THE KLEENEX HAND.
Well, crap, I thought to myself. Now I'm going to die.
Because who KNOWS what was on the kleenex? It was crumpled, thereby assuring me that it wasn't a fresh kleenex. What could it have been used for?
Best Case Scenario:
- tears
- crumpled in anger but never used
- blotting up a water spill
- someone's phone number (I never checked!)
- a genius Math formula that was worth a million dollars and would solve the energy crisis (I NEVER CHECKED!)
Worst Case Scenario:
- contained the coughs of someone with a communicable disease
- harbinger of a new plague
So presently I feel fine, but pay attention to the news in case I die suddenly. Then you, reader, must take it upon yourself to report to the authorities that the origin of a new plague is in the third change room at the Value Village in Newton. Obviously I can't warn them now, because I would sound crazy.
Monday, May 2, 2011
and now i have to drink all the rootbeer
Today sucks. If I could, I'd punch today on the nose, but the way things have been going I'd probably break my hand on its stupid face. I won't go into details, but to sum everything up I present to you a picture of what happens to a girl who lives on her own with a bottle of pop that seals itself mysteriously over night.
I didn't even close it that hard, but I tried a million things to get it open and now my hand hurts and I'm even MORE mad than when I started. I was going to use the knife to open it, but figured that if I stabbed with all my anger it would probably slip and cut off my thumb.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
a prickly cactus, a barbed wire bulldog
I talk about poo and wedgies in this one. And mostly complain. Just FYI.
After much effort, I finally found some runners. Like every other kind of store, Campbell River doesn't offer much in the way of athletic shoe stores, so I was losing hope until I went to this one place that had runners with purple on them. That pretty much decided it for me, plus they were in my budget. (Not having bought runners in about 10 years, I found that I had to up my budget dramatically from my initial idea, but these seemed fairly reasonable compared to all the rest.) When I emerged from my apartment with Charlie on our afternoon jaunt, it felt strange to take steps! Almost like my feet weren't actually stepping at all, just kind of hovering. They were heavier than I was used to, like being dressed in battle gear, but it felt good. Like I was an athlete!
Then Charlie pooed in someone's driveway, and yanked the leash out of my hand so it fell in the poo. When I picked it up, it got on both sleeves of my jacket and also on the poo bag holder. Then I discovered I had a wedgie situation, but there was nowhere secret to go to remedy that. Then, even though I thought I dressed appropriately for the weather with my windbreaker and a long sleeved shirt, the sweat-switch in my body flipped on for every single one of my pores, and suddenly there was a sweat-layer sandwiched in between my skin and clothing. Maybe I'm the only one who is like this, but when I get sweaty I hate everything until I can become less sweaty, but I was still several blocks from home. In poo-covered sleeves, with a wedgie.
I came home and gave my dog a bone with cheese to occupy him while I sit in my room and become less angry.
After much effort, I finally found some runners. Like every other kind of store, Campbell River doesn't offer much in the way of athletic shoe stores, so I was losing hope until I went to this one place that had runners with purple on them. That pretty much decided it for me, plus they were in my budget. (Not having bought runners in about 10 years, I found that I had to up my budget dramatically from my initial idea, but these seemed fairly reasonable compared to all the rest.) When I emerged from my apartment with Charlie on our afternoon jaunt, it felt strange to take steps! Almost like my feet weren't actually stepping at all, just kind of hovering. They were heavier than I was used to, like being dressed in battle gear, but it felt good. Like I was an athlete!
Then Charlie pooed in someone's driveway, and yanked the leash out of my hand so it fell in the poo. When I picked it up, it got on both sleeves of my jacket and also on the poo bag holder. Then I discovered I had a wedgie situation, but there was nowhere secret to go to remedy that. Then, even though I thought I dressed appropriately for the weather with my windbreaker and a long sleeved shirt, the sweat-switch in my body flipped on for every single one of my pores, and suddenly there was a sweat-layer sandwiched in between my skin and clothing. Maybe I'm the only one who is like this, but when I get sweaty I hate everything until I can become less sweaty, but I was still several blocks from home. In poo-covered sleeves, with a wedgie.
I came home and gave my dog a bone with cheese to occupy him while I sit in my room and become less angry.
Friday, February 25, 2011
that was not what i meant at all
It was English class. The students were diligently (ha) copying notes down from the overhead while I readied the projector to demonstrate the Write Trait of Voice by playing radically different versions of the same song. ("High and Dry" - Radiohead, Jamie Cullum, Emily Osment.) "Pay attention, you guys," I was saying, typing the address for good ol' faithful youtube into the address bar. "This is going to be exciting."
Now, we've all mis-typed an address into the address bar, right? Forget a letter here or there, press 'enter' before you're actually finished typing, that sort of thing. None of these have caused the end of the world before. You might get a "Page Not Found" error, or realize your mistake before the internet has finished loading the wrong page and correct it in time. In the case of Google, you might even end up at the page you intended because the site you were trying to get to has foreseen this type of difficulty and wants to spare you the trouble of typing correctly.
A thousand times I have done something similar. This is the first time I have done it in front of 24 twelve year olds. The first time. AND THE WORST TIME.
Do you know where "youtube.com" takes you if you forget the first letter? I will tell you. To a porn site. A PORN SITE. In the middle of English class. In a Christian school! In front of twelve year olds! A PORN SITE!
Luckily, due to some miracle or extreme coincidence, I didn't have the projector on at that moment. The computer was on, but facing my desk where the EA was sitting. "OH MY GOODNESS!" I shouted, as he burst out laughing. "THAT WAS NOT WHAT I MEANT AT ALL."
"What, Miss W.?" the darling, curious children asked. "What happened?"
"NOTHING HAPPENED!" I stammered, my face burning with embarrassment and awkwardness. "EVERYTHING IS FINE."
"Did you go somewhere bad?" the dear ones persisted. "Where did you go?"
"Nowhere. Watch this video," I commanded, turning the projector on and continuing on with class.
A PORN SITE. In ENGLISH CLASS. COME ON.
Now, we've all mis-typed an address into the address bar, right? Forget a letter here or there, press 'enter' before you're actually finished typing, that sort of thing. None of these have caused the end of the world before. You might get a "Page Not Found" error, or realize your mistake before the internet has finished loading the wrong page and correct it in time. In the case of Google, you might even end up at the page you intended because the site you were trying to get to has foreseen this type of difficulty and wants to spare you the trouble of typing correctly.
A thousand times I have done something similar. This is the first time I have done it in front of 24 twelve year olds. The first time. AND THE WORST TIME.
Do you know where "youtube.com" takes you if you forget the first letter? I will tell you. To a porn site. A PORN SITE. In the middle of English class. In a Christian school! In front of twelve year olds! A PORN SITE!
Luckily, due to some miracle or extreme coincidence, I didn't have the projector on at that moment. The computer was on, but facing my desk where the EA was sitting. "OH MY GOODNESS!" I shouted, as he burst out laughing. "THAT WAS NOT WHAT I MEANT AT ALL."
"What, Miss W.?" the darling, curious children asked. "What happened?"
"NOTHING HAPPENED!" I stammered, my face burning with embarrassment and awkwardness. "EVERYTHING IS FINE."
"Did you go somewhere bad?" the dear ones persisted. "Where did you go?"
"Nowhere. Watch this video," I commanded, turning the projector on and continuing on with class.
A PORN SITE. In ENGLISH CLASS. COME ON.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
i'm still not sure i've actually learned anything
I do not consider myself a slave to fashion. Yes, I dress much nicer if I plan on exiting my apartment and joining the general public than if I plan on lazing about my apartment, but as a general rule I will not wear something pretty if it is uncomfortable. I've always given myself more credit than that. Additionally, I have never been much of a "shoe person." I choose a pair of shoes I like, and wear them every day until they fall apart; then I purchase another pair of shoes as a necessity, but wear them resentfully and mourn the loss of my previous shoes. Then, naturally, I grow to love my new shoes and wear them every day until they fall apart and I require another pair of shoes. This cycle repeats and repeats. I'm not on the lookout for cute shoes; unless the ones on my feet are missing an essential component or I've worn the soles through to the ground, other shoes do not register on my radar.
Until one day. One day, I was shoe shopping with my mother. (Sigh. I hate shoe shopping. Especially when I've still got a perfectly functional pair on my feet.) I sat slumped in a chair, on stand-by for opinions and suggestions for her selections. I stared at racks and racks of shoes, eyes glazed over in unseeing apathy. Shoes, bah.
Then I saw them. They were cranberry red, and stood out from their neutral peers like a diamond ring in the toilet. I blinked and leaned forward ever-so-slightly. Something about them... they intrigued me. Dare I say, they called to me. "Loooooook," they said. "Loooooook. See how pretty."
I stood up and went to them, hesitant to pick them up. This was so unlike me, to be drawn in by a pair of shoes, so I was cautious. But the closer I looked, the more beautiful they became. A buckle! A luxurious velvet ribbon across the toe! A kitten heel!
Shoes: "Gaze upon us. Behold our majesty."
Me: "But I already have a pair of shoes on my feet."
Shoes: "Such a rich, vibrant colour. So unique."
Me: "But you probably won't match anything I own."
Shoes: "Such a delicate, whimsical heel."
Me: "But I topple over in anything higher than a flat."
Shoes: "Did you notice the buckle?"
Me: "I'm sold."
And so I bought them. Without anything to wear them with, or any sort of mastery over anything slightly resembling a heel, I bought them. As per my modus operandi, I instantly wore them everywhere. First up: a jaunt at the airport with my parents, to meet family. I kept gazing down at my feet, smiling in adoration. Such lovely shoes I had. Maybe I was a shoe person, after all! Maybe all those women who had scads and scads of shoes in their closets had it right.
Then I started to feel a little bit of a something on the outer regions of my feet. "Uh, hey," said my baby toes. "Something's... not right."
"La la la," I said. "New shoes."
"I mean it," insisted baby toes. "Something is amiss."
"LA LA LA," I said. "NEW SHOES."
"AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!" cried baby toes.
"AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!" I responded, suddenly and instantly crippled with agonizing pain in both feet. I stopped in the middle of a walkway at the airport and yanked off my stupid shoes. The last two toes on both feet were bright red, and one was bleeding. "What is happening?"
"Oh right," new shoes chimed in. "Did we not mention? BLISTERS. BLISTERS BLISTERS BLISTERS BLISTERS."
I couldn't walk around the airport in bare feet, because I am not ignorant of plantar warts and other various bacteria and disease that rampages wherever there be people, so I hobbled around for two hours, pitifully falling behind my family. I just couldn't keep up! They were all wearing normal shoes!
When I got home, I angrily threw the shoes in my closet. I was furious with myself for being taken in by the colour and the buckle. I had my shoe cycle and I strayed away, and got what I deserved. I would never again buy a pair of shoes before the old one fell apart, and I would not be seduced again.
Except I didn't throw the shoes away. And as I type this, I have band-aids on my baby toes because today at work I wore a skirt with a bit of red in it, and if a person has red shoes in their closet and that same person is wearing a skirt with a bit of red, it's just foolish to wear plain old black shoes. And as much as it pains me to admit it, this is not the first time I have come home from work with band-aids courtesy of those stupid red shoes. I can't resist their siren song. I guess I'm not as wise, or as immune to fashion, as I thought.
Until one day. One day, I was shoe shopping with my mother. (Sigh. I hate shoe shopping. Especially when I've still got a perfectly functional pair on my feet.) I sat slumped in a chair, on stand-by for opinions and suggestions for her selections. I stared at racks and racks of shoes, eyes glazed over in unseeing apathy. Shoes, bah.
Then I saw them. They were cranberry red, and stood out from their neutral peers like a diamond ring in the toilet. I blinked and leaned forward ever-so-slightly. Something about them... they intrigued me. Dare I say, they called to me. "Loooooook," they said. "Loooooook. See how pretty."
I stood up and went to them, hesitant to pick them up. This was so unlike me, to be drawn in by a pair of shoes, so I was cautious. But the closer I looked, the more beautiful they became. A buckle! A luxurious velvet ribbon across the toe! A kitten heel!
Shoes: "Gaze upon us. Behold our majesty."
Me: "But I already have a pair of shoes on my feet."
Shoes: "Such a rich, vibrant colour. So unique."
Me: "But you probably won't match anything I own."
Shoes: "Such a delicate, whimsical heel."
Me: "But I topple over in anything higher than a flat."
Shoes: "Did you notice the buckle?"
Me: "I'm sold."
And so I bought them. Without anything to wear them with, or any sort of mastery over anything slightly resembling a heel, I bought them. As per my modus operandi, I instantly wore them everywhere. First up: a jaunt at the airport with my parents, to meet family. I kept gazing down at my feet, smiling in adoration. Such lovely shoes I had. Maybe I was a shoe person, after all! Maybe all those women who had scads and scads of shoes in their closets had it right.
Then I started to feel a little bit of a something on the outer regions of my feet. "Uh, hey," said my baby toes. "Something's... not right."
"La la la," I said. "New shoes."
"I mean it," insisted baby toes. "Something is amiss."
"LA LA LA," I said. "NEW SHOES."
"AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!" cried baby toes.
"AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!" I responded, suddenly and instantly crippled with agonizing pain in both feet. I stopped in the middle of a walkway at the airport and yanked off my stupid shoes. The last two toes on both feet were bright red, and one was bleeding. "What is happening?"
"Oh right," new shoes chimed in. "Did we not mention? BLISTERS. BLISTERS BLISTERS BLISTERS BLISTERS."
I couldn't walk around the airport in bare feet, because I am not ignorant of plantar warts and other various bacteria and disease that rampages wherever there be people, so I hobbled around for two hours, pitifully falling behind my family. I just couldn't keep up! They were all wearing normal shoes!
When I got home, I angrily threw the shoes in my closet. I was furious with myself for being taken in by the colour and the buckle. I had my shoe cycle and I strayed away, and got what I deserved. I would never again buy a pair of shoes before the old one fell apart, and I would not be seduced again.
Except I didn't throw the shoes away. And as I type this, I have band-aids on my baby toes because today at work I wore a skirt with a bit of red in it, and if a person has red shoes in their closet and that same person is wearing a skirt with a bit of red, it's just foolish to wear plain old black shoes. And as much as it pains me to admit it, this is not the first time I have come home from work with band-aids courtesy of those stupid red shoes. I can't resist their siren song. I guess I'm not as wise, or as immune to fashion, as I thought.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
master chef, o master chef, wherefore art thou not in my kitchen
I made a mistake on dinner. I forgot to freeze my ground beef in one-person sections, so I had to thaw out and subsequently fry up a whole pack tonight. However, I brilliantly came up with two days worth of meal plans that used ground beef. I would have mac and cheese and ground beef tonight (a delicacy, to be sure), tacos tomorrow, and then freeze whatever I had left. Super good plan.
However, just before dinner I got a call from my landlord saying he’d come by shortly to fix some stuff, and then I called my super to arrange for him to come by in a bit to pick up a spare key so he could let the fire people in to do an inspection, and I think I was distracted. After frying and seasoning the ground beef and doctoring up my macaroni, I poured the mac into the beef and started stirring. It wasn’t until AFTER I’d started stirring that I realized I had forgotten to separate the beef into sections for tonight and tomorrow, and I’d already mixed it up too much to separate, so I muttered a curse word (that’s a lie, I shouted a curse word and almost tore my hair out in frustration – living alone seems to make mildly upsetting things REALLY upsetting) and decided that I’d have to have mac and cheese and ground beef for dinner tonight, lunch tomorrow, and dinner tomorrow. GROSS.
Plus, the ratio of mac and cheese to ground beef was not acceptable. It’s like 60% beef to 40% non-beef. I think I’m going to have to make up another box of KD to mix in to the debacle, and just throw away what I can’t eat. I am so disappointed, you guys. I had it all planned out.
However, just before dinner I got a call from my landlord saying he’d come by shortly to fix some stuff, and then I called my super to arrange for him to come by in a bit to pick up a spare key so he could let the fire people in to do an inspection, and I think I was distracted. After frying and seasoning the ground beef and doctoring up my macaroni, I poured the mac into the beef and started stirring. It wasn’t until AFTER I’d started stirring that I realized I had forgotten to separate the beef into sections for tonight and tomorrow, and I’d already mixed it up too much to separate, so I muttered a curse word (that’s a lie, I shouted a curse word and almost tore my hair out in frustration – living alone seems to make mildly upsetting things REALLY upsetting) and decided that I’d have to have mac and cheese and ground beef for dinner tonight, lunch tomorrow, and dinner tomorrow. GROSS.
Plus, the ratio of mac and cheese to ground beef was not acceptable. It’s like 60% beef to 40% non-beef. I think I’m going to have to make up another box of KD to mix in to the debacle, and just throw away what I can’t eat. I am so disappointed, you guys. I had it all planned out.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Shouldn't Have Done, Couldn't Have Done
This evening I was consumed by a craving for cake, but I was by myself and didn't want to drive out and buy a piece of cake, so I thought - why don't I make cake in a cup? Because I saw it on youtube one time, and was taken aback by the brilliance of it. Cake for one person! In a little mug! In the microwave! Amazing!
So I copied down the recipe and set about mixing everything together, super excited for how awesome my cake was going to be. I would make icing, and use those rainbow sprinkles, and it would be the best cake ever made in a little mug. I only became mildly concerned when it started rising out of the mug after only 30 seconds, so just in case it was going to explode the microwave and send microwave parts flying at my face, I hid behind the dining room wall and watched it from a safe distance.
When the three magical microwave minutes were up, I removed the mug and was a little bit puzzled by how it had shrunk down - the recipe said it should rise above the mug. And it had risen, but then shriveled up again. But maybe that's just what happens? Perhaps a tiny taste before I go to all the trouble of making icing.
As I'm sure you predicted, my tiny taste was less than satisfactory. Not DISGUSTING, which is a relief, but it had the consistency of pancakes. Which are fine when you are expecting pancakes, but super disappointing when you are expecting cake. (I think this stems back to not having a 1/8 tsp measuring spoon, so I guessed, and also I don't know how much a dash of vanilla is.) Still, I figured probably it would taste okay with a ton of icing. Only, it turns out I can't really make icing. The sprinkles were good, though.
Lesson learned: don't use the first recipe you find on the internet. Also, just buy a cake from the store.
So I copied down the recipe and set about mixing everything together, super excited for how awesome my cake was going to be. I would make icing, and use those rainbow sprinkles, and it would be the best cake ever made in a little mug. I only became mildly concerned when it started rising out of the mug after only 30 seconds, so just in case it was going to explode the microwave and send microwave parts flying at my face, I hid behind the dining room wall and watched it from a safe distance.
When the three magical microwave minutes were up, I removed the mug and was a little bit puzzled by how it had shrunk down - the recipe said it should rise above the mug. And it had risen, but then shriveled up again. But maybe that's just what happens? Perhaps a tiny taste before I go to all the trouble of making icing.
As I'm sure you predicted, my tiny taste was less than satisfactory. Not DISGUSTING, which is a relief, but it had the consistency of pancakes. Which are fine when you are expecting pancakes, but super disappointing when you are expecting cake. (I think this stems back to not having a 1/8 tsp measuring spoon, so I guessed, and also I don't know how much a dash of vanilla is.) Still, I figured probably it would taste okay with a ton of icing. Only, it turns out I can't really make icing. The sprinkles were good, though.
Lesson learned: don't use the first recipe you find on the internet. Also, just buy a cake from the store.
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